Nora’s head rested on Carson’s chest, listening to his heartbeat slow to normal. His hand traced lazy patterns on her bare back.
“I could get used to this,” she said.
“Good. Because I plan on doing this a lot.” His hand stilled. “Is it too much? Too fast? We can slow down if—”
“Carson.” She propped herself up to look at him. “Stop overthinking. This is perfect. You’re perfect. Well, not perfect perfect, but perfect for me.”
“Not perfect perfect?” he asked, feigning hurt.
“You hog the blankets. And you snore sometimes. And you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re brooding.” She traced the crease in question. “But those things just make you human. Real. Mine.”
“Yours,” he agreed. “Definitely yours.”
They stayed there for a while longer, just holding each other, watching the fire die down. Eventually, Carson carried her to the bedroom, Nora protesting she could walk but secretly loving being carried.
In bed, wrapped in his arms, Nora felt something settle in her chest. Peace. Safety. Home.
“Thank you,” she whispered into the darkness.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on me. For believing me when everyone else thought I was crazy. For fighting for me.”
“Always.” He pulled her closer. “I’ll always fight for you.”
She fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and strong, and for the first time in months, she didn’t have nightmares.
***
The next few days fell into an easy rhythm.
Mornings, they’d wake tangled together, make love, and then make breakfast. Afternoons, they’d explore the area—hiking trails, the small town nearby, or just sitting by the lake reading. Evenings, they’d cook dinner together and talk for hours. Then they’d make love again, christening every room and every surface in the cabin.
No phones. No work. No stress.
Just them.
On the third day, Carson taught Nora to fish. She was terrible at it—managed to hook her own jacket twice and nearly fell in the lake once—but they laughed more than they’d laughed in weeks.
“I don’t think fishing is my calling,” Nora said after losing her third lure to a submerged log.
“No?” Carson grinned. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’re enjoying my suffering.”
“A little.” He reeled in his own line and set down his rod. “Come here.”
She went to him, and he wrapped his arms around her from behind, showing her how to hold the rod properly. “It’s all in the wrist. You’re trying to muscle it. Let the line do the work.”
“I’m not muscling it,” she groused.
“You really are.” His breath was warm against her ear. “Relax. Feel the rhythm.”
She tried again, and this time the lure sailed out smoothly, landing with a soft plop in the water.
“There!” Carson said. “Perfect.”
“Did you just use fishing as an excuse to put your arms around me?”
